Time
by Tom Tomorrow
Summary: Time is fickle. Everything happens so fast. So fast. So fast and then slow. So slow. Time is fickle. And she would never have enough. She knows this now. (Alternate Ending to 4x18)


Time is fickle.

Everything happens so fast.

So fast.

So fast and then slow.

So slow.

Time is fickle.

She knows this now.

It was brown. The autumn. It made the world brown.

The forest. The grass. The trees, all brown and delicate.

The leaves, the bushes ... all brown.

All almost frozen, but not quite yet. The winter hasn't come yet.

It might as well have.

Her hands are numb.

Her pants soaked through from the frosty mud she kneels in.

She can see her breath with every inhalation.

Typical Chicago weather.

The blonde paramedic should really be used to it by now.

Yet somehow, she isn't.

She steadily packs the man's gunshot wound with gauze, ignoring his moans of pain.

And she yells over the roar of the train.

Yells for Jimmy to run back the ambulance to grab a stretcher.

The bullet is in the man's leg, but it must have nicked a vein.

There's too much crimson seeping into the ground for it to have hit anything other than a vein.

It isn't arterial. Arterial blood sprays.

Either way, it isn't an easy fix.

And sitting in the cold isn't going to fix a damn thing.

Footsteps crunch into the ground behind her.

And she turns, expecting Jimmy.

Is surprised when she sees a complete stranger instead.

He was probably a neighbor.

Neighbors tended to get nosey.

She motions for him to back up.

Her patient has a completely different reaction.

The man groaning beneath her seizes up, panics as he tries to writhe away.

And Sylvie's hold on the gauze loosens as she's bucked away. Shoved back into the cold.

Caught off guard by both the victim and by the man he's dragging himself away from.

Caught so off guard, that she fails to make any connection.

Instead, as the ice prickles its cold fingers up and down her neck, some trivial thought flies through her mind.

Something along the lines of, ' _Where did all this energy come from?'._

 _He could barely move before._

The blonde gathers her bearings and begins to scramble forward.

Begins to reprimand them both.

He really shouldn't moving that much with a gunshot wound.

The stranger above them really shouldn't be interfering. Really shouldn't be so close.

In that moment, something silver glints in the light.

And it dawns on her then. What's actually happening.

"No! No! Please!"

The man's begging falls on deaf ears.

The gunshot crackles like lightning.

One after another.

His pleas are silenced.

His crimson sprays. It splatters against her skin. Against her face.

Red, coppery, metallic.

Blood.

She freezes for that moment.

Blue eyes wide with fear.

And time stills.

Then the revolver turns toward her.

And time snaps forward again.

Brett kicks back. Tries to shove herself away from the man.

But the shot rings out.

And it isn't so much the pain, but the shock, the surprise, of almost anticipating, feeling the hot, sharp agony in her shoulder.

The hole the bullet would make.

It isn't what she expects.

The force throws her backwards.

And her back collides with the cold ground with an audible thud.

Not as loud as the gunshot. Never that loud.

But she had thought there would be more pain.

Instead, it was an invasiveness.

Like something strange and uninvited had burrowed itself a home.

 _That's not supposed to be there,_ she remembers thinking.

Against her mind's will, she finds her body trying to sit up.

Trying to roll itself off her injured shoulder.

Another crackle.

Another shot.

It slices through her upper arm.

She doesn't try to get up again.

That one keeps her down.

Brett looks dully across the grey air, trying to comprehend what's just happened.

Across from her lies her patient.

What's left of a dead man.

There's no life left in those eyes.

Not anymore.

Blood rushes through her ears.

Loud and unforgiving as it runs to find the exits formed by the metal.

She scrunches her eyes tightly.

Feels the liquid crimson seeping through her shirt.

So warm.

So warm in the cold.

But no pain.

Where's the pain?

Why can't she feel it?

And why isn't he going away?

 _Leave. Leave. Leave._

Leave before Jimmy comes back.

She hears footsteps. Heavy and loud with the crunching leaves.

And knows it's too late.

"Hey! What the fuck m-"

One more shot.

It's deafening.

Sylvie doesn't even have to see Jimmy to know he had fallen.

She hears his pained gasping. Gurgling and wet.

And the man must have run out of bullets.

Because the footsteps start up again.

Fade and fade until they mix with the sounds of the windy city.

But she doesn't dare move until she's sure she can't hear them anymore.

Instead, she keeps her eyes shut.

Listens to the rushing in her ears. To the train. To Jimmy's labored breathing.

"Jimmy?"

A gurgle in reply.

She opens her eyes.

Comes face to face with the corpse.

"Jimmy?"

More gurgling.

Jimmy.

She has to help Jimmy.

She grips her injured arm. Rolls off her injured shoulder.

Then the pain comes.

Searing pain. Sharp, loud, ear-splitting.

Primal and untamed.

She groans.

Stars mix with the salt in her vision.

But Jimmy.

 _Jimmy._

She blinks the stars away.

Swallows her nausea.

Half drags, half crawls on her knees and her one good arm toward him.

She sees the red first.

Bright red.

Gushing, pouring from his chest.

Just to the left of his sternum, just below his collar bone.

Thick rivulets of crimson.

Her hands shake as she hovers above him.

Red. Red. Red.

Soaking his shirt.

Dribbling out of his mouth.

Staining the ground.

And his eyes meet hers. Wide with pain. With shock. With fear. A plethora of emotions.

"J-Jimmy… You're going to be fine. You're g-going to be fine, Jimmy."

Her light headedness impacts her as she woozily searches for the gauze packs.

Stop the bleeding. Stop the bleeding. Gauze packs would stop the bleeding.

Brett presses them against his chest cavity. With as much pressure as her own pain will allow.

The blood soaks through in rapid spurts. Dousing the gauze with crimson.

Flowing thickly over her fingers.

Dribbling down the sides.

 _No no no._

It's arterial.

His lips are turning blue.

He's drowning in his own blood.

 _No no no._

She can't do this alone.

She needs dispatch.

She fumbles for her phone.

 _"This is Ambo Sixty one!"_

 _"Sylvie? Why are you calling my personal number? Shouldn't you be calling-"_

It's Dawson. Why does she sound so confused?

Dawson isn't supposed the be confused, she's supposed to be here. She's supposed to help.

 _"Dispatch! This is Ambulance Sixty One! We need ambo… We need ambo sixty… Need ambo sixty one right now!"_

Her voice sounds thick and heavy and foreign, even to her own ears.

 _"Sylvie! You're not making any sense! You're ambo sixty one! Where's Borelli?"_

Borelli's dying!

The sane part of Brett wants to scream it.

Wants to make them understand.

But she doesn't say it.

She has to stop the bleeding.

The pulses are growing slower. Growing weaker. Further in between.

Stop the bleeding. Stop the bleeding. Stop the ble-.

 _"Brett! Stay on the line! Firehouse 51 is on the way."_

She shakes her head, as if they can actually see her.

 _No no no._

She doesn't need the fire station. She needs an ambulance.

He's pale. Too pale.

Bile and crimson coat his lips.

Coat his skin.

 _"Sylvie-"_

She ignores the voices on the other end of the phone.

"It's okay. S'okay. Y-you're, you're going to be fine."

Jimmy's eyes are glazed over. Rolling aimlessly.

His drastic movements have quelled to tremors.

" _Sylvie. What's happening?"_

Stop the bleeding. Stop the bleeding. Stop the bleeding.

" _Sylvie."_

It's Kelley now. Strong and steady.

 _"Sylvie. We need a status report. We need a report, so we know what we're headed into."_

Then she realizes she doesn't hear anything.

Nothing.

No gasping.

No thumping.

She shoves her fingers against his neck.

No pulse.

She lets out a broken gasp.

 _No._

Shifts instantly into compressions.

Painful and awkward with only one arm.

The other won't cooperate.

She doesn't want to see the damage under her coat.

A wave of nausea sweeps over her. Tilts her word sideways.

She rapidly blinks her eyes as she tries to clear the fuzziness that's settled on the edge of her vision.

Instead salty tears spill over. Fast and unrelenting.

Why is it so cold? So cold.

Everything is so cold. So damp. So red.

Thirty over two. Thirty over two.

Thirty compressions. Two breaths.

Over and over again.

The crimson is thick. It's congealing.

Her gloves are slick with it.

The blood has concentrated in the folds of her knuckles making the pale blue medical gloves crease dark.

She's even kneeling in it.

Thirty over two. Thirty over two.

His ribs crack under the pressure.

Nausea hits her again.

She ignores it feverishly.

He doesn't move. He doesn't breathe.

Nothing.

Do compressions. Compressions.

 _One. Two. Three._

One after another.

Voices murmur frantically from the phone on the ground.

She doesn't answer them.

Thirty over two,

Minutes pass.

One after another.

In the distance, she hears sirens.

Coming closer. Growing louder.

 _Twenty one. Twenty two. Twenty three._

Doors slam shut.

The blonde can't see them.

But she can hear them.

Hears them calling out her name.

Hears their footsteps crunching in the dead grass.

A crackle of a radio.

" _We've got her."_

Matt?

"Oh god…"

Dawson?

 _Three. Four. Five._

She's here.

Her face swims into the path of Brett's vision.

The older paramedic pulls out a pen light.

Shines it into Jimmy's eyes.

 _Ten. Eleven. Twelve._

"Sylvie."

She ignores her.

"Sylvie. He's gone."

He's not gone. He's not.

 _Twenty Five. Twenty Six. Twenty Seven._

 _"Sylvie…"_

The older paramedic disappears from her sight momentarily.

"Matt. She's in shock. Jimmy… Jimmy didn't make it."

Gabby's voice sounds far away. Syrupy and thick. Like it's underwater.

Thirty over two. Thirty over two.

 _Three. Four. Five._

"Okay… Okay. Otis. Call Chicago PD. Let them know that this… That this is a crime scene."

"Yes, sir."

And even in her deliriousness, she can hear the worry.

 _Ten. Eleven. Twelve._

"Lieutenant. She's injured."

Cruz? Herman?

 _She's injured._

Huh.

She'd almost forgotten she'd gotten shot.

Something about that seems absurdly funny.

She let's out a strangled laugh.

Her injury doesn't matter. Not when Jimmy's dying underneath her.

"Sylvie. Sylvie. Look at me."

Gabby's face swims back into her murky vision.

"Sylvie, you're hurt. You need to stop the compressions. We need to check you out."

 _Twenty. Twenty one. Twenty two._

"He's dying, Gabby."

She sounds so broken, so small and fragile.

"Listen… Matt's going to continue compressions. He's going too, but we need to check you out."

Her compressions falter.

And a pair of strong arms wrap around her torso. Pulling her away.

It's Kelley. Pulling her back from Jimmy.

And true to Dawson's word, Matt takes her place.

Then everything tips on its side, as time rushes to catch up.

The thoughts in her head mingle together.

The walls of her mind come nearer, merging colors like a kaleidoscope, smothering everything that was even slightly coherent in her head.

The sweat and crimson running down her body was hot, cold, tickling, making her tremble and shiver... the pain... the pain...

She feels Dawson cutting away at her jacket.

Feels Severide's arms, holding her up... holding her against him.

She leans on Severide, feels his heart through her burning back, feels him breathing, nice and slow…

Everything's so cold…

The pain…

And she slips into the dark.

… … … …

Time is fickle.

Everything happens so fast.

So fast.

So fast and then slow.

So slow.

Time is fickle.

And she would never have enough.

She knows this now.


End file.
